Page 186 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He lifts the lid on the bakery box, and I inhale a cloud of powdered sugar. Inside sits a cream puff the size of my fist, a warm golden dome of choux pastry crackling at the edges, its custard filling quivering. “You love me.”

“Yes,” he says, voice smooth. He doesn’t have to fight for the words anymore, the way he did at first.

I reach in and lift half the pastry, letting the sweet weight warm my palm. “Je t’aime aussi,” I say, the French rolling off my tongue like a song. I love you too.

He nods, pleasure lighting his eyes. “Bien.”

I squint. “Did you just grade my declaration of love?”

“I was complimenting your French.”

“After I said I love you.”

“Yes.”

He splits his half of the cream puff, and I steal the larger piece. He sighs, affectionate and exasperated all at once.

Custard beads at my chin as I take a bite. “Mm, fuck, that’s good. Where did you get this?”

“That little place by the square.”

“The one with the grumpy woman who hates me?”

“She likes you.”

“She told me my accent wounds her.”

“That was affection.”

“France is terrible.”

“And yet.”

And yet.

I look past him to the cottage. The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, painting the stone walls honey-warm. Beyond the newly rebuilt boundary wall, thick ivy masks his estate except for a solitary roof tile peeking through the leaves.

The wall is solid now—every stone mortared tight. Except for the wrought-iron gate. My gate. Our gate, technically, though I’m the one who paid for it, so I claim naming rights. Its slender bars curve in an elegant arch, still waiting for a fresh coat of paint.

“You chose green,” he says, nodding at the half-painted shutter leaning against the wall.

“For now.”

“You said blue last week.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Before that, you said cream.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain indecision.”

“Va te faire foutre.” Go fuck yourself.

“Your French lessons are broadening your vocabulary,” he says, chuckling under his breath.

I grin. Actually, they are. I can order a baguette without the baker switching to English, ask for directions, and follow most of what Camille says when he slows down and treats me like I’m five. I still can’t parse two locals haggling at the market—they sound like machine-gun fire.